


Five Times Dean Failed, and One Time He Didn't Do Too Badly

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-03
Updated: 2010-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>University AU. Dean isn't as cool as he thinks he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Dean Failed, and One Time He Didn't Do Too Badly

**Author's Note:**

> **Other characters:** Sam Winchester, Jo Harvelle, Victor Henriksen, Ash.
> 
> Written for the "Back to School: A Supernatural College AU Fest" on dreamwidth.

1

Dean’s been back on campus for little over a week when he sees Mystery Nerd for the first time.

It’s smack-dab in the middle of the early rush, fresh meat falling all over themselves to please and newly-minted seniors circling for blood. For Dean, Jo and Ash, it’s prime time to troll the fuck out of the frat and sorority houses. They’re a well-oiled three-person unit of terror at this point, their experience from previous years culminating in a criminal Shock ‘n Awe campaign that has the highlight of the Psi Epsilon Delta pledges screaming like children under attack by big bad sprinklers.

They’re still screaming when their trio rounds the corner to safety, Dean and Jo grinning at each other as the catch their breath. Ash is already checking his notebook for the next house they’re going to hit before they call it a day. When he looks up, there’s a gleam in his eye. “Lambda Eta’s open door party’s tonight.”

“Ruby’s going to be pissed,” Jo says, though it’s more a promise than a warning. “What’re we going to do?”

“Treasure hunting,” Dean says. Nothing as tacky as a panty run, of course, since Lambda Eta have _much_ more interesting stuff lying around the place.

With the front entrance wide open to potential pledges, Jo’s able to sneak in with a crowd of freshmen and slyly unlock the side doors to let Dean and Ash enter. What they don’t expect is that Ruby’s been waiting for them. As soon as they’re in, the seniors unsheathe their claws, Meg tackling Ash to the ground and Ruby screaming the order for the pledges to stop them from leaving. It’s chaos. Dean doubles back, grabbing something from a shelf just so it’s not a total loss and glancing at Jo who yells, “Save yourself!” while Bela throws a skipping rope around her.

“I’ll get help!” Dean shouts as he makes it outside, wondering if the threat of Jo and Ash’s kidnapping will finally lure Sam out of his room. Dean makes it over the fence easily, but lands awkwardly on his side, a jolt of pain lancing through his body.

“Winchester!” Ruby screams from the house. “Winchester, get the hell back here!”

Dean snickers when he imagines Ruby’s face, and the sound grows louder and louder until he’s outright laughing, drunk on stupid.

The pain in his side and the adrenaline rush from a very productive couple of hours has him rolling over the grass until he’s suddenly stopped by pair of sensible black shoes. They look like something one of the profs would wear, so Dean’s got a smirk and witty rejoinder at the ready when he tilts his head up.

There’s a guy he’s never seen before standing over him, too young to be a professor, too neatly dressed to be a student. What really catches Dean’s atttention are the sharp blue eyes. There’s nothing judgmental in them, just a curious calmness, those eyes so steady that it’s like being swallowed by quicksand. Dean can’t move, can’t look away, can’t do anything but hear his laughter die away as he lies there like a beached seal.

For a long time after the only thing Dean’ll remember of this moment is how the man’s shirt perfectly matches his eyes.

“Are you all right?” the guy asks. “You appear to be intoxicated.”

“Nope, no intoxicants involved,” Dean says, still feeling unbalanced. “This is all me.”

That earns him a pair of raised eyebrows, followed by a cautious, “Do you need assistance?”

“Nope, I’m good,” Dean says, far too quickly. “I’m cool, it’s cool, I’m just lying here.”

“Ah,” the other guy says, which could mean anything and nothing. It sounds like the guy doesn’t have enough data to achieve any sort of conclusion, though what conclusion could anyone get when Dean’s lying on damp grass, wheezing softly and clutching a feather boa to his chest.

Then the guy turns around and walks away.

Dean feels faintly disappointed about that, but he doesn’t stop watching the guy until he disappears round the hedge. Strangely, he feels more out of breath now than when he jumped over the fence and damn near landed on his face. Brushing it off, he searches for his cell and calls for back-up.

 

* * *

 

 

2

Dean sees the guy around campus and in town every once in a while, which means that he’s in it for the full year and not just some visitor passing through.

These random glances aren’t enough for Dean to figure out if the guy’s student or faculty, though. What Dean does know for sure is that guy’s a major nerd. Oh, sure, he doesn’t have any of the usual tells (no glasses, giant folders, highwater pants or plaid), but he carries himself like a fucking automaton: chin straight, eyes up, gait evenly-spaced. The only sign that he’s human at all is the slight hunch to his shoulders, like maybe he’s spent far too many hours bent over a book or computer screen.

Then there are his clothes. _Hell_, his clothes. Mystery Nerd always wears dress shirts and pants, usually with a jacket, occasionally without; usually with a tie, even more rarely without. Even professors dress down every other day because they can, but this guy _chooses_ to look like he’s on the way to a job interview every time he leaves his house (or apartment or hole in the wall, as far as Dean knows) and that’s just _sad_, because whenever Mystery Nerd loses the jackets he’s got a fine piece of ass to show-off.

The one time that Dean sees the guy go sans tie _and_ unbutton the top of his shirt (it’s a hot day), there is a smooth expanse of prime lickable skin bared to view, and Dean cannot stop watching it travel across the quad.

“Focus, Winchester!” Victor snaps, palm hitting the side of his head. “I know you’re just itching to chase some tail, but I’d like to get our proposal of the way _before_ the deadline, if you don’t mind.”

Dean glares at him. “I wasn’t thinking about—”

“Yeah, sure, uh-uh.” Victor watches Mystery Nerd disappear through the admin building’s double doors, and then turns unimpressed eyes back to Dean. “Tell me another one.”

It isn’t that Mystery Nerdy Dude is some kind of super hot Al Pacino look-a-like or whatever. He’s just a reasonably pleasing-looking guy that exists in the same area, and Dean’s _all_ for appreciating eye candy. Hence, there’s really nothing surprising about the fact that over the next couple of weeks he finds his gaze drawn more often than not when he sees the familiar messy tuft of dark hair cross the quad or pass by in a corridor or buy a coffee from the east block cafe.

“God, Dean, you’re _drooling_,” Jo says. She’s sitting across from him at their table, chin balanced on her hands and eyes practically twinkling. “Who is she? He?”

“Three o’clock,” Dean says.

Jo stretches, turns her head casually over her shoulder, and then comes back round smoothly. “Not familiar with that one. What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Faculty?”

“Don’t know.”

“Is he even a student here?”

“Not a friggin’ clue.”

“Jesus.” Jo laughs. “So, what, you’ve just been eyeing him? That’s not like you.”

“I like to look,” Dean says, which is true. He’s had a full frontal blast of those blue eyes once, and that was more than enough. The guy is _intense_, and the way he’s now ordering coffee makes it appear like a life-or-death situation, scrutinizing what appears to be a cream-whip macchiato with the type of severity Doc Moseley saves for her more difficult students (which Dean knows from experience).

“I could say hi for you?” Jo suggests.

“No,” Dean says sharply. “Seriously, I just want to look.”

“Yeah...” Jo’s grin is slow and devious. “Imagine how much better it would be if you could look up close?”

Jo starts to get up but Dean is saved when Sam suddenly appears at their table, dumping his bag and gasping for breath. “Hey, guys,” he wheezes. “Late – appointment – had to –”

“Yeah, we get it.” Dean starts to grab at a free stool when Sam waves him off.

“Meeting my TA,” Sam says, the color of his face slowly going back to normal. “We were supposed to meet at the library, but my cell died and I didn’t get his message until just a few minutes ago, you have _no idea_ how big this place is until you’ve got to cross it in five minutes.”

“Your TA?” Dean laughs. “Oh, shit, you mean that loser history kid you got helping you out with your equally loser project?”

“Hello, Sam,” says a familiar, gravelly voice, and Dean is suddenly hit with the cold certainty that the world will not do him the favor of immediately swallowing him whole.

He knows that voice, but it still doesn’t fully prepare him for the moment he swivels on his stool and sees Mystery Nerd standing not on the other side of the cafe, but _right there_, an arm’s length away.

“This is Castiel,” Sam says. “Castiel, this is Dean and Jo. Dean’s my brother, remember I told you about him?”

Castiel looks at Dean, and yeah, those eyes are like fucking tractor beams. “Yes, I remember.” After a delicate pause, he adds, “Just so you know, I’m a graduate.”

Dean doesn’t know what he says next because he’s too busy getting the fuck out of there, while Jo presumably makes excuses for them as he rushes to the exit. Once outside, Dean pauses only long enough to let Jo catch up, and even then he wonders if that was the right thing to do because she just _can’t stop laughing._

 

* * *

 

 

3

It’s one thing for Castiel to be this person that occasionally wanders into Dean’s peripheral vision, and a completely different thing for Castiel to be a person that actually _intersects_ with his immediate social circle.

Not that there’s much actual interaction at the beginning. Their encounters are limited to casual nods of acknowledgement as they pass each other on campus, Castiel no more interested in conversation than Dean is. This is, in fact, a _downgrade_ from the previous situation, because now Dean can’t openly ogle the guy without tipping him off.

It would have stayed that way, Dean’s certain, until the first time that he barges into Sam’s room and finds Castiel there, sitting at Sam’s desk and tapping away at a laptop. He looks up when Dean enters, fingers pausing delicately on the keys and looking completely unsurprised, as though he gets interrupted by Dean all the time.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean blurts, which is only marginally better than demanding what the fuck Castiel is doing there.

“He went to fetch some coffee,” Castiel says. “Shall I take a message?”

“I... wait.” Rebounding from his initial surprise of Castiel’s unexpected presence, Dean mulls over the fact that there is something wrong with this picture, and it isn’t the artsy-fartsy posters that Sam’s put all over his side of the room. It’s that Castiel is _comfortable_ in Sam’s space, sitting near Sam’s books and Sam’s clothes and Sam’s bed and within easy spitting distance of a blown-up photo of Sam and Jess mugging at the camera.

Dean scowls. “Aren’t you guys supposed to do your work in the library, or something?”

“We sometimes do, yes, but the internet connection there is often congested.” Castiel declares this with a solemn kind of disappointment that would be hilarious if it weren’t so earnest.

Dean has no idea what to do with that, because he knew that Mystery Nerd would be, well, _nerdy_, but Castiel has this vibe about him that suggests that if Dean so much as pokes at him, he’d turn that stare up to eleven and Dean would be left a pile of ashes on the floor.

This leaves Dean precious few options on how to proceed from this point. Then Castiel surprises him by saying, “A few us are going to Jose’s later for a drink. I invited Sam along, and you are welcome to join us as well.”

It’s Dean’s turn to stare. “You drink?” That doesn’t jive with the stick-up-his-ass shtick Castiel’s got going on at all.

“I am a History major in the middle of pursuing my doctorate.” The edges of Castiel’s mouth subtly curve upwards. “Yes.”

Dean finds himself tentatively grinning back. “Awesome.”

Castiel’s statement turns out to be accurate and then some, because when they get there (Sam only mildly irritated by Dean’s unexpected invite), he puts his personal brand of intensity into downing shots like they’ve personally offended him.

Sam is somewhere in the background talking geek with the rest of the group, but Dean’s not going to pretend to be interested in that shit when he can watch Castiel top up a line of shot glasses with long, elegant fingers. He cants his head at Dean silently in invitation, quiet mischief clear in his eyes now that Dean knows where to look.

It’s not long at all before Dean is swaying and leaning deep into Castiel’s personal space. Sam and the others could be dancing on tables for all Dean cares right now, because there’s just the two of them left in the booth and that’s just the way Dean likes it. Castiel smells _amazing_ and he hasn’t let out a peep of complaint about the fact that Dean is practically sprawled all over him. From the way Castiel is carefully folding a napkin into what could be a demented bird, he’s barely noticed.

Dean hooks his chin on Castiel’s shoulder, squinting at the shape of his ear and wondering if it’d ruin the night if he licks the shell. At that moment he realizes that he’s aroused, and his mouth happily runs off without him, “You know – you know what’d make this _perfect_? A good fuckin’ lay, that’s what.”

Castiel hums noncommittally, more focused on pressing a firm crease in his impromptu origami project. “You may be too inebriated for sexual activity, Dean.”

Gyuh. Castiel said _sexual activity_. Dean clutches on to Castiel’s coat a little harder, just enough that they almost tip over, but Castiel saves them with a solid hand to the table, smiling just enough for his mouth to look more delicious than usual.

“Am _not_,” Dean slurs. “I could totally… yeah, I would totally do her.” He can’t even see who he’s gesturing at, but Castiel glances at the blurry dancing figure obligingly. “How ‘bout you?”

“I do not believe I would have intercourse with her should she invite me,” Castiel says.

“How can you fuckin’ talk like that?” Dean asks, almost tripping over his own tongue for how thick it feels. “Aren’t you drunk?”

Castiel gives him one of his inscrutable smiles. It’s such a fucking tease, and Dean’s immediately thinking of all the things he’d willingly do for a chance to pry apart every single secret Castiel may have. Cas’ cheeks are, however, unarguably pink, so he is definitely at least a little bit drunk, though that only makes Dean feel a little better.

“You’re a eunuch,” Dean says suddenly. “That’s so _sad_.”

The irritation on Castiel’s face is something new, and definitely not the reaction Dean had been going for. “Asexuality is a perfectly valid lifestyle, Dean,” he says sharply.

Dean’s stomach bottoms out. Oh, it figures. Fucking hottest guy on campus and Dean has less than zero chance of getting into his pants. It makes sense, though, putting it together with how Castiel hasn’t batted at eyelash at the fact that Dean’s hands are only a few inches away from some major groping. “Sorry.”

“Here,” Castiel says, flourishing his origami masterpiece.

Dean peers at it. “It’s a bird?”

“It’s a _hat_,” Castiel says, and demonstrates by putting it on Dean’s head. He’s positively beaming at the sight, which makes something in Dean’s stomach ache. “Now you are dashing and well-equipped to pursue the young lady.” He glances back at the girl Dean had pointed out earlier. “She does not appear to be attached.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, hoping he sounds more hopeful than glum, “Might as well give it a shot, eh?” He slowly peels himself off Castiel and sways dangerously to his feet, necessitating Castiel standing up as well to help him regain his balance.

Dean’s already squinting at the distance, trying to figure out which chick it was, when Castiel asks softly, “Are you safe?” When he only grunts, Castiel adds firmly, “Dean, do you have protection?”

There’s the sound of ruffling, and when Dean turns back Castiel is digging into one of his coat pockets, eventually pulling out an assortment of foiled packets. Dean stares while Castiel sorts through them as carefully as he’d lined up his shots earlier.

“The ribbed ones are enjoyable,” Castiel says, “Though not everyone likes those. I’d recommend the ones with extra lubrication, for practicality?”

Dean looks at the condoms, then at Castiel’s earnest, helpful face.

Not celibate, then.

With this new information, Dean has the sudden, shocking mental image of Castiel putting one of those condoms between his lips and slipping it on to Dean’s erection with his mouth. It’s too much to process and something inside Dean just snaps.

Then he throws up on Castiel’s shoes.

Castiel is stunned for all of two seconds, and then he’s pulling out a box of wipes from another pocket in his coat.

Dean collapses to the floor with the certainty that he’s not getting laid tonight.

 

* * *

 

 

4

Having to drag another person’s sorry drunken ass home creates a bond between the one who’s dragging and the one who’s almost comatose. Dean wakes up in the early reaches of the morning to the sight of a glass of water and aspirin on the side table, and he manages a weak grin before he has to fly out of bed to throw up in the bathroom.

Castiel even calls later in the day to make sure that he’s okay, which is another pleasant surprise.

“When’d you get my number?” Dean asks.

“_Your phone was in your pocket_,” Castiel explains. “_I took the liberty of adding my number and calling my cell to obtain yours._”

Dean’s head hurts like a motherfucker, but this just may be worth it. “Cool.”

A clumsy sort of almost-friendship follows, in which Castiel sends him sporadic text messages about bagels and oddly-shaped trees and interesting things that catch his eye during his morning jog, and Dean replies with pictures of food and an endless stream of dirty jokes. However, the novelty only lasts a week before Dean realizes that this is the first time in his life that he’d ever fallen into an accidental friendship with someone he’s attracted to when said attraction is still active.

When Dean wants someone, he doesn’t dick around about it. He makes his objectives known perfectly clear from the word hello, and if said objectives are rejected then he moves on. The strategy has served him well over the years, and Dean honestly has no idea why more people don’t do the same. The direct way is _easy_, for fuck’s sake, so there’s absolutely no reason why, the next time Dean bumps into Castiel, he shouldn’t immediately lay it out on the line.

Only, that doesn’t happen.

The next time Dean spots Castiel, they’re crossing the main quad and Castiel is frowning down at a book he’s reading. Dean has to deliberately step into his path and bark a greeting before Castiel sees him, and then – _well_. Castiel’s face lights up, all worry lines falling away as happy as you please. There’s no doubt that it’s due to Dean that Castiel looks so pleased, and instead of this giving Dean ammunition for a full frontal attack, the gung-ho grab ‘em smack ‘em plan inexplicably withers away and dies.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says.

“Hey,” Dean says. “Uh. You busy, Cas?”

Castiel snaps the book shut. “No.”

The almost-friendship then takes new shape with trips to the coffee shop and lunches together when their schedules allow. Dean tells stories that Cas doesn’t always get, and Cas spends long minutes sharing details of his doctorate project that glaze Dean’s eyes over, but they both agree that the coffee shop’s pie is pretty damn good. It’s all shiny and strange and new, and not at all as complicated as Dean would’ve thought. Well, except for the part where Dean always leaves these meetings feeling embarrassingly elated despite there being nothing traditionally interesting having happened.

“You do know that History and Engineering have a long and illustrious past of mutual loathing?” Jo tells him. She’s grinning, but Dean can’t find it in himself to be annoyed.

“All the more reason for it,” Dean says. “For the good of inter-faculty relations.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days,” Sam says. He’s tapping away at his laptop despite it being a gorgeous day all around them, but Dean still has hope that he’ll squeeze this habit out of him before the year’s out.

“Why haven’t you asked him out yet, again?” Jo asks.

Before Dean can answer, Sam says, “I’m already weirded out by the fact that Dean and Cas are friends _at all_. Anything more would just be…” He makes a face.

“Hey, if I wanted to ask him, I would,” Dean protests. When Jo’s expression slides from amused to skeptically amused, he adds loudly, “It’s not like I even know for sure if he likes dick!”

“Who likes dick?”

There’s only one person who can say _dick_ and make it sound family-friendly.

“We were talking about you, actually,” Jo says pleasantly. “Hi, Castiel.”

“Hi, Cas,” Sam says.

Dean inches his head round and standing right there is Cas the goddamn ninja, armed with a thermos, a book and a mildly curious tilt to his head. Notably, he doesn’t look offended at all by Jo’s statement that they’d been discussing him. “I see.”

“Someone was asking,” Sam says, the little bitch. “Since they’re too chicken shit to ask themselves.”

Cas looks intrigued. “May I ask whom?”

Propelled by the life-or-death impetus to get an answer out before anyone else, Dean whips his head around in search of a familiar face and shouts, “Victor!” He clears his throat, nodding rapidly in an attempt to steel his expression into something cool and nonchalant. “Victor. Yeah. He’s in one my classes. And a friend. He was asking.”

Cas looks in the same direction, expression contemplative as he takes in the sight of Victor talking into a cell on the other side of the courtyard, blissfully unaware. “Oh,” Cas says. “As he is your friend, then he must be of good character.”

“He is,” Sam says. “Though not necessarily because he’s friends with Dean.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says. “I shall tell Victor that his interest would not go amiss.”

“Wait, what?” Dean says stupidly. Then he watches in horror as Castiel turns around and marches straight towards Victor.

Jo and Sam are talking, but Dean doesn’t register the words as anything more than a vague muttering in the background. He’s too busy watching the way Victor starts with surprise when Castiel opens conversation, his surprise turning into confusion, turning into something else (curiosity?) before Victor raises a finger and quickly does something with his phone.

Dean’s cell vibrates with a text message from the man himself. _WHY IS YOUR BOY ASKING ME OUT_

His reply: _X MY B, WTF_

Victor’s smile is perfectly visible from a distance. _OK THNX_

Jo, to her credit, doesn’t raise her laughter beyond choking gasps. Sam, on the other hand, sighs and says, “You do not get to comment about my love life ever again, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

 

5

Dean is learning in excruciating detail the specifics of Cas’ dinner date prep ritual. He’s not sure how he let himself be dragged all the way to Cas’ apartment and ended up helping him pick what to wear (okay, so Dean may have invited himself over and Cas had gone along with it because that’s what he does, but whatever, _semantics_). Dean’s usual advice is to pick something that’s the easiest to take off, but no way is he sharing that when it won’t be _him_ reaping the benefits.

“You really don’t need to do that,” Dean says when Cas starts poking through his freakishly-organized collection of ties. “It’s a casual thing, right?”

“I like ties,” Cas says, a hint of petulance in his tone. “They make you look distinguished.”

Dean pokes a thumb towards himself. “Weddings, funerals.”

One moment Cas is eyeing Dean speculatively from across the room, and the next he’s right there in Dean’s face, looping a tie around his neck like a lasso. Dean protests with a loud, “Hey!” before his brain catches up on the fact that Cas is standing well within acceptable manly boundaries and aimed that wonderful focused energy on his neck.

“You can’t make me like it,” Dean grumbles.

“No one can make you like anything,” Cas says reasonably. He tightens the knot with business-like efficiency and then pats it, hand firm as it presses all-too-briefly down Dean’s chest. “There.”

They both turn to the mirror.

Dean looks ridiculous. He’s wearing a Henley, for fuck’s sake, and now there’s a dark green noose around his neck that’s leaking a straight line of cloth almost all the way down to his sensible leather belt. “I look stupid.”

“No,” Cas says. “The tie perfectly brings out your eyes. You merely need the correct shirts to match.”

Dean is suddenly hit with a vision of Castiel buying him shirts and standing there patiently while Dean complains about how itchy or uncomfortable or unnecessary they are. Sometimes he’ll acquiesce to wear them, and those times Cas’ face will light up with pleasure. Dean will grumble as he puts them on, and then he’ll say that he never got the hang of ties so Cas’ll have to help him out. Cas will have that little smile on his face that says that he knows perfectly well Dean that knows how to do this but just doesn’t want to, and they’ll do it over and over again, just because they can.

It’s a shock to realize how much he wants that.

Not just that, but _everything_.

Cas draws in close to remove the tie. The movement is completely innocent, but he is now close enough that Dean can count his eyelashes, and Dean need only close a couple of inches to meet Cas’ mouth with his own.

So he does.

Cas makes a surprised noise, jerking his head back abruptly before Dean can even get confirmation if Cas’ lips are as soft as they look. Dean opens his eyes, only to find Cas staring at him in shock and something almost like betrayal.

“Uh…” Dean goes with the first thing pops into his head. “Oops?”

“Oops, you fell on my mouth?” Cas says, voice dangerously flat. His fingers swiftly loosen the tie around Dean’s neck, tugging it free in the most efficient, unsexy way ever. The tie is tossed aside carelessly, and then Cas turns to his closet, back to Dean. “You’d better leave. I have a date and I should be getting ready.”

“You’re still going?” Dean says unhappily.

Cas only glances at him long enough for Dean to realize that he’s completely outworn his welcome. “Yes. I keep my promises, Dean.”

Disappointment and embarrassment war for dominance, but Dean manages to make a hasty retreat without saying anything stupid. It’s only once he’s outside Cas’ apartment a safe distance away that he allows himself to replay what just happened, press a fist to his forehead and shout, “Fuck!”

 

* * *

 

 

+1

It’s douchey to be texting someone while they’re in the middle of a date, but Dean finds himself simply unable to think about, let alone do, anything else. He’d gone to harass Sam until he got kicked out for being a nuisance, Jo’s nowhere to be found and hell will freeze over before Dean turns to schoolwork to keep him preoccupied from the fact that he may have fucked things over irreversibly with Cas.

He’s commiserating in what he thinks of as ‘their’ booth in the campus café, untouched cup of coffee in front of him. Meanwhile, Dean’s cell is getting plenty of mileage.

_SORRY, CAN EXPLAIN_

_CAS, AM VERY SORRY_

He’s almost tempted to add _:(_ because Cas once mentioned that he finds emoticons endearing when sporadically used, but Cas may not be in the mood for that.

“Where’s your friend?” Pamela asks, appearing at the booth. She double-takes when she sees the look on Dean’s face. “Is he all right?”

Dean mutters something unintelligible which he roughly explains that between the two of them Cas is definitely the one who’s all right, and then he sends a _WAS NOT OOPS AT ALL_ Cas’ way. He nods a distracted thank you when Pamela puts a slice of pie down in front of him.

There’s no reply from Cas, though Dean knows he shouldn’t expect one. Cas is busy – Dean is so not going to visualize what he’s busy _with_ – but it’s so weird to send message after message and not get so much as one of Cas’ _RCVD_s, which he’d said he always sends because it’s only polite to acknowledge receipt of a message even if a proper reply isn’t immediately forthcoming.

Dean half-heartedly crumbles his slice of pie and picks at the filling. He’s just taken a bite when Cas suddenly drops into the seat opposite his.

“Mwuh,” Dean says, mouth full of fork and filling that takes a moment to swallow.

“Victor spent the entire time talking about you,” Cas says, irritated. “Was that a ploy of yours?”

“What? No!”

“_You’re_ the one who pointed me in Victor’s direction,” Cas reminds him. “Well?”

Dean suddenly realizes that Cas is still in date mode. He’s wearing a blue shirt; not the same one he was wearing when they first met, but fairly similar. He doesn’t have a tie on, which is surprising, but what’s more surprising is that the shirt’s top button has been popped open, leaving bare a teasing inch of skin that begs for a bite.  

“My eyes are up here,” Cas says.

“I really like you,” Dean blurts out. Cas’ unimpressed glare doesn’t change, so he continues, “I mean… Victor’s _okay_, I guess, but I’m way better. The thing where I mentioned Victor – that was an accident. It was me. I wanted to know if you swung that way, because I was… I _am _interested.” He coughs. “In that way.”

Cas sighs, exasperated. “You could have just _asked_, Dean. I simply don’t understand why more people don’t take the direct approach. Be upfront! It saves so much hassle, and it’s infinitely easier than – why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothin’.”

“Besides, I already know that you’re eccentric,” Cas says, ignoring Dean’s sputter of disbelief. “And _you_ should be well-aware by now that even if I were not interested in you, I would not let such a declaration compromise our friendship.”

“Wait,” Dean says. “_If _you were not interested?”

Cas crosses his arms, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

“You want to do something one of these days?” Dean asks carefully. “Like, as in a date?”

Cas puts one of those long fingers to his perfect mouth, tapping it thoughtfully. He narrows his eyes at Dean, as though mentally composing a lengthy PROS AND CONS list in his head and scoring each item accordingly. Dean definitely doesn’t squirm when Cas looks at him that way, but it’s hard.

After a long moment, Cas says, “I would enjoy that, Dean.” He shakes his head in disbelief, and _finally_ breaks into one of those little smiles that make Dean want to do something stupid like sing REO Speedwagon in public. “Now that wasn’t difficult, was it?”

“No,” Dean says, a little surprised. Nothing’s actually changed. Cas is still sitting across the way, looking at him like he always does, which is to say: like Dean has done something stupid but Cas finds it endearing and tolerates him anyway. “Huh.”

“Now you can join me in my seat,” Cas says, moving over on his side to make room, “And we may make out for a while.”

Dean almost says something like: _best boyfriend ever_, but that’d ruin the mood entirely. Instead, he changes seats as per Cas’ instruction, flips Pamela off when she gives them the thumbs up, and then sets on the very important task of obtaining empiric information on the shape, taste and texture of Cas’ mouth.

Only, sexier than that sounds, because Cas makes out with the same focus than he puts into everything else he does and Dean ends up being kissed fucking breathless. From the smug look on Cas’ face when they eventually part, Dean’s pretty sure that it’s only going to be more awesome from here on out.


End file.
